Indian Luck
by Rachel Alt

We strolled down to the Ganges from our guest-house, cameras whirring, wordlessly devouring the vibrant scene. Divali, one of the Hindu calendar's biggest celebrations, set the city alight with twinkling prayer lights. Wooden boats ferried pods of Indian families along the river, herded by jewel-robed matriarchs. Goat kids scampered up and down the stone 'ghat' steps that lead from temple to river's edge. Families picnicked, cooking snacks on dung-fuelled fires.

In North India the tourist scene is peppered with Rajasthani Romeos. Young Indian men who entice tourists into their own commission-based city itinerary. Our guide in Varanasi was Lucky. The charming twenty-something struck up a conversation with us, claiming he wanted to practice his English. He was in the background of our photos for almost an hour before approaching us.

We joined the crowded promenade along the river and Lucky entertained us with city secrets. He helped us buy 'puja', palm sized prayer offerings of dried leaf bowls filled with candles, rice and flower petals. Dusk crept into night and Lucky took us all by the hand, his daisy chain of tourists.

We raced the dark labyrinth of streets against the clang of temple bells. He took us to a terrace with a birds-eye view of the 'burning' ghats. Corpses wrapped in white silk and draped with gold cloth lined the steps, ready for cremation. Silver bangles and mirror-worked saris gleamed at us through the black smoke of prayer candles and funeral pyres as we volleyed back down through the swirling crowd.

Lucky brought us to our first Indian meal. Over mango lassis and perfumed naan dipped in dahl we asked him. How much money did he want? A silent flick of his cropped fringe and the question was dismissed. A musician strummed the soprano wires of a tabla nearby and we again fell into the magic.

For the next 2 days, Lucky was our Ringmaster. A dawn boat trip along the river, watching the city wake to the call of prayer bells and salutations to the sun. Hours spent in silk shops, drinking chai, delighted and bedazzled by bolts of shimmering trance-enducing silk. All five of us sardined into an auto-rickshaw, breathless from giggling for the short drive to the Monkey Temple. Lucky stood back, smiling, as a Hindi wedding embraced us while monkeys gambolled around our feet. And each day, the same question - how much? Each day the same dismissal. If the agenda was all Lucky's we didn't mind much - he knew what tourists like, and what he could gain from our enjoyment. We were having a fantastic adventure - meeting locals, spontaneously being blessed with a smudge of tumeric on our foreheads or invited into a shop for chai and chat.

The sting in this tale came in the taxi ride to the airport. Lucky had a sad story - his father needed a liver operation. Could we give him a gift of 7,000 Rupees (about AUS$200)? Expecting this, but disappointed it had happened, I handed him the 5,000 Rupees we had ready. Lucky counted it quickly and looked away as he stuffed it in his pocket. Silence. No fond farewells. It was clear our young entrepreneur was unhappy with his return on investment.

The consensus, over samosas and a post-mortem in the airport cafe: we wouldn't have wanted it any other way. A collective sigh of relief that we had lived for 3 days on the blade-thin precipice between trust and travel disaster, and escaped with amazing memories, funny stories and no material loss. The bitter surprise of Lucky's blackmail was palpable. But this was India, where anything is possible. It was the beginning of a fantastic adventure.

More about Rachel
Rachel Alt has lived, travelled and written about India, Indonesia, Malaysia, Scandanavia, Western Europe, Cyprus, Fiji, Vanuatu and the UK. Her work has appeared in Lonely Planet, The Sun Herald, TNT , www.bootsnall.com and now Yahoo!7. Her next trip will be to Japan to eat the best sashimi in the world, to walk under the cherry blossoms and stay in a Buddhist temple on a mountain top.